Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo

most valued Grisha had just punched his second in command.
Pull it back. The command rang through me and I looked at the Darkling in

horror.
“No!” I said. But I couldn’t stop it; the dome of light began to contract. Mal

looked at me as the circle shrank closer to the skiff, and if Ivan hadn’t been
holding me, the look of regret and love in his blue eyes would have sent me to
my knees. I fought with everything I had, every bit of strength, everything
Baghra had taught me, and it was nothing in the face of the Darkling’s power
over me. The light inched closer to the skiff.

I gripped the railing and cried out in rage, in misery, the tears streaming down
my cheeks. Mal was standing at the edge of the gleaming circle now. I could see
the shapes of the volcra in the swirling dark, feel the beat of their wings. He
could have run, could have wept, could have clung to the sides of the skiff until
the darkness took him, but he did none of those things. He stood unflinching
before the gathering dark.

Only I had the power to save him – and I was powerless to save him. In the
next breath, the darkness swallowed him. I heard him scream. The memory of
the stag reared up before me, so vivid that for a moment the snowy glade swam
in my vision, the image of it transposed over the barren landscape of the Fold. I
smelled the pines, felt the chill air on my cheeks. I remembered the stag’s dark,
liquid eyes, the plume of his breath in the cold night, the moment when I knew
that I would not take his life. And finally, I understood why the stag had come to
me every night in my dreams.

I’d thought the stag was haunting me, a reminder of my failure and the price
my weakness would exact. But I was wrong.

The stag had been showing me my strength – not just the price of mercy but
the power it bestowed. And mercy was something the Darkling would never
understand.

I had spared the stag’s life. The power of that life belonged to me as surely as
it belonged to the man who had taken it.

I gasped as understanding flooded through me, and I felt that invisible grip
falter. My power slid back into my hands. Once more, I stood in Baghra’s hut,
calling the light for the first time, feeling it rush towards me, taking possession
of what was rightfully mine. This was what I had been born for. I would never
let anyone separate me from it again.

Light exploded from me, pure and unwavering, flooding over the dark place
where Mal had stood only moments before. The volcra that had hold of him
shrieked and released its grip. Mal fell to his knees, blood streaming from his
wounds as my light enveloped him and drove the volcra back into the darkness.

The Darkling looked momentarily confused. He narrowed his eyes, and I felt
his will descend on me again, felt that invisible hand grasping. I shrugged it off.
It was nothing. He was nothing.

“What is this?” he hissed. He raised his hands and skeins of darkness spooled
towards me, but with a flick of my hand, they burned away like mist.

The Darkling advanced, his handsome features contorted with fury. My mind
was working frantically. I knew he would have liked to kill me where I stood,
but he couldn’t, not with the volcra circling outside the light that only I could
provide.

“Seize her!” he shouted to the guards surrounding us. Ivan reached out.
I felt the weight of the collar around my neck, the steady rhythm of the stag’s
ancient heart beating in time with mine. My power rose up in me, solid and
without hesitation, a sword in my hand.
I lifted my arm and slashed. With an ear-splitting crack, one of the skiff’s
masts split in two. People bleated in panic and scattered as the broken mast fell
to the deck, the thick wood gleaming with burning light. Shock registered on the
Darkling’s face.
“The Cut!” Ivan gasped, taking a step backwards.
“Don’t come any closer,” I warned.
“You aren’t a murderer, Alina,” said the Darkling.
“I think the Ravkans I just helped you slaughter would disagree.”
Panic was spreading through the skiff. The oprichniki looked wary, but they
were closing in on me just the same.
“You saw what he did to those people!” I cried to the guards and Grisha
around me. “Is that the future you want? A world of darkness? A world remade
in his image?” I saw their confusion, their anger and fear. “It’s not too late to
stop him! Help me,” I begged. “Please, help me.”
But no one moved. Soldier and Grisha alike stood frozen on the deck. They
were all too afraid, afraid of him and afraid of a world without his protection.
The oprichniki inched closer. I had to make a choice. Mal and I wouldn’t have
another chance.
So be it, I thought.
I glanced over my shoulder, hoping Mal understood, and then I dived for the
side of the skiff.
“Don’t let her reach the railing!” the Darkling shouted.
The guards surged towards me. And I let the light go out.
We were plunged into darkness. People wailed and, above us, I heard the
volcra screeching. My outstretched hands struck the railing. I ducked under it
and hurled myself onto the sand, rolling to my feet and running blindly towards

Mal as I threw the light ahead of me in an arc.
Behind me, I heard the sounds of slaughter on the skiff as the volcra attacked

and clouds of Grisha flame exploded in the darkness. But I couldn’t stop to think
of the people I’d left behind.

My arc of light flashed over Mal, crouched in the sand. The volcra looming
above him screeched and whirled away into the dark. I sprinted to him and
pulled him to his feet.

A bullet pinged against the sand beside us and I plunged us into darkness
again.

“Hold your fire!” I heard the Darkling shouting over the chaos on the skiff.
“We need her alive!”

I threw out another arc of light, scattering the volcra that were hovering
around us.

“You can’t run from me, Alina!” the Darkling shouted.
I couldn’t let him come after us. I couldn’t take the chance that he might
survive. But I hated what I had to do. The others on the skiff had failed to come
to my aid, but did they deserve to be abandoned to the volcra?
“You can’t leave us all here to die, Alina!” the Darkling shouted. “If you take
this step, you know where it will lead.”
I felt a hysterical laugh burble up inside me. I knew. I knew it would make me
more like him.
“You begged me for clemency once,” he called over the dead reaches of the
Fold, over the hungry shrieks of the horrors he had made. “Is this your idea of
mercy?”
Another bullet hit the sand, only inches from us. Yes, I thought as the power
rose up inside me, the mercy you taught me.
I raised my hand and brought it down in a blazing arc, slashing through the
air. An earth-shaking crack echoed through the Fold as the sand skiff split in
half. Raw screams filled the air and the volcra shrieked in their frenzy.
I grabbed Mal’s arm and threw a dome of light around us. We ran, stumbling
into the darkness, and soon the sounds of battle faded as we left the monsters
behind.

We emerged from the Fold somewhere south of Novokribirsk and took our first
steps in West Ravka. The afternoon sun was bright, the meadow grass green and
sweet, but we didn’t stop to savour any of it. We were tired, hungry and
wounded, but our enemies wouldn’t rest, and neither could we.

We walked until we found cover in an orchard and hid there until dark, afraid
of being spotted and remembered. The air was thick with the smell of apple

blossoms, but the fruit was far too small and green to eat.
There was a bucket full of fetid rainwater sitting beneath our tree, and we used

it to wash the worst stains from Mal’s bloodied shirt. He tried not to wince as he
pulled the torn fabric over his head, but there was no disguising the deep wounds
the volcra’s claws had left across the smooth skin of his shoulder and back.

When night came, we began our trek to the coast. Briefly, I’d worried that we
might be lost. But even in a strange country, Mal found the way.

Shortly before dawn, we crested a hill and saw the broad sweep of Alkhem
Bay and the glittering lights of Os Kervo below us. We knew we should get off
the road. It would soon be bustling with tradesmen and travellers who were sure
to notice a cut-up tracker and a girl in a black kefta. But we couldn’t resist our
first glimpse of the True Sea.

The sun rose at our backs, pink light gleaming off the city’s slender towers
then splintering gold on the waters of the bay. I saw the sprawl of the port, the
great ships bobbing in the harbour, and beyond that blue, and blue, and blue
again. The sea seemed to go on forever, stretching into an impossibly distant
horizon. I had seen plenty of maps. I knew there was land out there somewhere,
beyond long weeks of travel and miles of ocean. But I still had the dizzying
sense that we were standing at the edge of the world. A breeze came in off the
water, carrying the smell of salt and damp, the faint cries of gulls.

“There’s just so much of it,” I said at last.
Mal nodded. Then he turned to me and smiled. “A good place to hide.”
He reached out and slid his hand into my hair. He pulled one of the gold pins
from the tangled waves. I felt a curl slide free and slither down my neck.
“For clothes,” he said as he dropped the pin into his pocket.
A day ago, Genya had placed those golden pins in my hair. I would never see
her again, never see any of them. My heart twisted. I didn’t know if Genya had
ever really been my friend, but I would miss her just the same.
Mal left me waiting a little way off the road, hidden in a stand of trees. We’d
agreed it would be safer for him to enter Os Kervo by himself, but it was hard to
watch him go. He’d told me to rest, but once he was gone, I couldn’t seem to
find sleep. I could still feel power thrumming through my body, the echo of what
I’d done on the Fold. My hand strayed to the collar at my neck. I’d never felt
anything like it, and some part of me wanted to feel it again.
And what about the people you left there? said a voice in my head that I
desperately wanted to ignore. Ambassadors, soldiers, Grisha. I had as good as
doomed them all, and I couldn’t even be sure that the Darkling was dead. Had he
been torn apart by volcra? Had the lost men and women of the Tula Valley
finally had their revenge on the Black Heretic? Or was he, at this very moment,

hurtling towards me over the dead reaches of the Unsea, ready to bring down his
own kind of reckoning?

I shuddered and paced, flinching at every sound.
By late afternoon, I was convinced that Mal had been identified and captured.
When I heard footsteps and saw his familiar form emerge through the trees, I
nearly sobbed with relief.
“Any trouble?” I asked shakily, trying to hide my nerves.
“None,” he said. “I’ve never seen a city so crowded with people. No one even
gave me a second glance.”
He wore a new shirt and an ill-fitting coat, and his arms were laden with
clothes for me: a sack-like dress in a red so faded it looked almost orange and a
nubbly mustard-coloured coat. He handed them to me and then tactfully turned
his back so that I could change.
I fumbled with the tiny black buttons of the kefta. There seemed to be a
thousand of them. When the silk finally slid over my shoulders and pooled at my
feet, I felt a great burden lift from me. The cool spring air pricked my bare skin
and, for the first time, I dared to hope that we might really be free. I quashed that
thought. Until I knew the Darkling was dead, I would never draw an easy breath.
I pulled on the rough wool dress and the yellow coat. “Did you deliberately
buy the ugliest clothes you could find?”
Mal turned to look at me and couldn’t restrain a smile. “I bought the first
clothes I could find,” he said. Then his grin faded. He touched my cheek lightly,
and when he spoke again, his voice was low and raw. “I never want to see you in
black again.”
I held his gaze. “Never,” I whispered.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a long red scarf. Gently, he
wrapped it around my neck, hiding Morozova’s collar. “There,” he said, smiling
again. “Perfect.”
“What am I going to do when summer comes?” I laughed.
“By then we’ll have found a way to get rid of it.”
“No!” I said sharply, surprised by how much the idea upset me. Mal recoiled,
taken aback. “We can’t get rid of it,” I explained. “It’s Ravka’s only chance to
be free of the Shadow Fold.”
It was the truth – just not all of it. We did need the collar. It was insurance
against the Darkling’s strength and a promise that someday we’d return to Ravka
and find a way to set things right. But what I couldn’t tell Mal was that the collar
belonged to me, that the stag’s power felt like a part of me now, and I wasn’t
sure I wanted to let it g°.
Mal studied me, his brow furrowed. I thought of the Darkling’s warnings, of

the bleak look I’d seen in his face and in Baghra’s.
“Alina …”
I tried for a reassuring smile. “We’ll get rid of it,” I promised. “As soon as we

can.”
Seconds passed. “All right,” he said at last, but his expression was still wary.

Then, he pushed the crumpled kefta with the toe of his boot. “What should we do
with this?”

I looked down at the heap of tattered silk and felt anger and shame roll over
me.

“Burn it,” I said. And we did.
As the flames consumed the silk, Mal slowly pulled the rest of the golden pins
from my curls, one by one, until my hair tumbled around my shoulders. Gently,
he pushed my hair aside and kissed my neck, right above the collar. When the
tears came, he pulled me close and held me, until there was nothing left but
ashes.

AFTER

The boy and the girl stand at the railing of the ship, a true ship that rolls and

rocks on the heaving back of the True sea.
“Goed morgen, fentomen!” a deckhand shouts to them as he passes by, his

arms full of rope.
All the ship’s crew call them fentomen. It is the Kerch word for ghosts.
When the girl asks the quartermaster why, he laughs and says it’s because

they are so pale and because of the way they stand silent at the ship’s railing,
staring at the sea for hours, as if they’d never seen water before. She smiles and
does not tell him the truth: that they must keep their eyes on the horizon. They
are watching for a ship with black sails.

Baghra’s Verloren was long gone, so they had hidden in the slums of Os
Kervo until the boy could use the gold pins from her hair to book passage on
another ship. The city buzzed with the horror of what had happened in
Novokribirsk. Some blamed the Darkling. Others blamed the Shu Han or
Fjerdans. A few even claimed it was the righteous work of angry Saints.

Rumours began to reach them of strange happenings in Ravka. They heard
that the Apparat had disappeared, that foreign troops were massing on the
borders, that the First and Second Armies were threatening to go to war with
each other, that the sun summoner was dead. They waited to hear word of the
Darkling’s death on the Fold, but it never came.

At night, the boy and the girl lie curled around each other in the belly of the
ship. He holds her tight when she wakes from another nightmare, her teeth
chattering, her ears ringing with the terrified screams of the men and women she
left behind on the broken skiff, her limbs trembling with remembered power.

“It’s all right,” he whispers in the darkness. “It’s all right.”
She wants to believe him, but she’s afraid to close her eyes.
The wind creaks in the sails. The ship sighs around them. They are alone
again, as they were when they were young, hiding from the older children, from
Ana Kuya’s temper, from the things that seemed to move and slither in the dark.
They are orphans again, with no true home but each other and whatever life
they can make together on the other side of the sea.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my agent and champion, Joanna Stampfel-Volpe. I feel lucky every

day to have her on my side, as well as the wonderful team at Nancy Coffey
Literary: Nancy, Sara Kendall, Kathleen Ortiz, Jaqueline Murphy and Pouya
Shahbazian.

My sharp-eyed and intuitive editor, Noa Wheeler, believed in this story and
knew exactly how to make it better. Many thanks to the remarkable people at
Holt Children’s and Macmillan: Laura Godwin, Jean Feiwel, Rich Deas and
April Ward in design, and Karen Frangipane, Kathryn Bhunida and Lizzy Mason
in marketing and publicity. I’d also like to thank Dan Farley and Joy Dallanegra-
Sanger. Shadow & Bone/The Gathering Dark could not have found a better
home.

I’m grateful to everyone at Orion and Indigo who helped bring the Grisha
Trilogy to the UK including Fiona Kennedy, Jenny Glencross and Nina Douglas.

My generous readers, Michelle Chihara and Josh Kamensky, lent me their
supergenius brains and cheered me on with relentless enthusiasm and patience.
Thanks also to my brother Shem for his art and long-distance hugs, Miriam “Sis”
Pastan, Heather Joy Kamensky, Peter Bibring, Tracey Taylor, the Apocalypsies
(especially Lynne Kelly, Gretchen McNeil and Sarah J. Maas, who gave me my
first review), my fellow WOART Leslie Blanco, Johannah Playford, and Dan
Moulder, who was lost to the river.

I blame Gamynne Guillote for fostering my megalomania and encouraging my
love of villains, Josh Minuto for introducing me to epic fantasy and making me
believe in heroes, and Rachel Tejada for way too many late-night movies.
Hedwig Aerts, my fellow pirate queen, put up with long hours of late-night

typing. Erdene Ukhaasai diligently translated Russian and Mongolian for me
over Facebook. Morgan Fahey kept me in cocktails, conversation and delicious
fiction. Dan Braun and Michael Pessah kept the beat.

Many books helped to inspire Ravka and bring it to life, including Natasha’s
Dance: A Cultural History of Russia, by Orlando Figes; Land of the Firebird:
The Beauty of Old Russia, by Suzanne Massie; and Russian Folk Belief, by
Linda J. Ivanits.

And finally, many thanks to my family: my mother, Judy, whose faith never
wavered, and who was first in line to order her kefta; my father, Harve, who was
my rock, and whom I miss every day; and my grandfather Mel Seder, who
taught me to love poetry, seek adventure and throw a punch.

Leigh Bardugo, March 2012





FOUND NEAR RAVKA’S
NORTHERN BORDER. . .

Alina.
I’ve been staring at your name for almost an hour. I hate trying to chase my

thoughts down this way, hunting for words. The pen feels wrong in my hand.
Makes my fingers itch for a bowstring or a trigger.

But I better get to it. It’s late now, long past curfew, no sounds but snoring,
Dubrov muttering in his sleep, and the wind, wrapping itself around the thin
walls of the tent, clawing to get in. Supplies are tight, and I’ve wasted most of
the oil in the lamp sitting here, staring at your name.

We’re two, maybe three miles south of the Fjerdan border, deep in the
permafrost. I thought I knew winter, but the cold up here is something else
entirely. It gets in your head.

It doesn’t help that we’re tracking a creature no one is sure exists, that no one
has ever managed to get a look at. You should have seen our captain when he
told us we had new orders, that we were joining up with another unit to track
Morozova’s stag. None of us could keep a straight face, and when we finally got
back to the barracks, Mikhael laughed so hard I thought he might sprain
something. “Are we tracking fairies next ? Khitkii? Elves?” No one’s laughing
now, not since winter set in.

The first couple of months weren’t bad. We met up with the other trackers
south of Ulensk and followed them east, then back south, skirting the Petrazoi.
Some of them took the hunt seriously. Some didn’t. But we saw cropped grass in
otherwise untouched fields, tracks that came from nowhere, even trace. (That’s
right—we’ve seen magical deer scat. Mikhael thinks we should collect it and sell
it as a cure-all. I’m not entirely sure it’s a bad idea. Or maybe the cold really is
making me crazy.) But no one has actually seen the stag. Not yet. Apparently
there have been units assigned to track the herd for years, depending on how
cracked the current King or Darkling is. Now this Darkling wants the efforts
stepped up. Rumors are he wants the stag for you. The orders came down and,
mad as they seemed, we were happy to march, to get away from Kribirsk and put
some distance between ourselves and the Fold.

No one’s been the same since the attack on the sandskiff. The memory is too
clear in my head, too sharp—lying on my back on the deck, my body going
numb, realizing the dampness pooling beneath me was my own blood, then your
face lit by those last gasps of Grisha fire before everything went white. We don’t
talk about it much, but that’s why no one’s moaning at me to douse the lantern.
Most of us can’t sleep without one burning. Even in the day, I see people
walking around hunched up, cricking their necks like they’re afraid something’s
going to come at them from above. Everyone thinks that’s why I keep to myself

more, why I toss and turn, why my rations go uneaten. But it’s not volcra I see
when I close my eyes.

I need to sleep. I can’t afford not to be alert tomorrow. This isn’t a place that
tolerates mistakes. Old Kovac used to say that you had to have a feel for
tracking, that either the land spoke to you or it didn’t. Well, this land speaks—
and when it does, it howls so loud I can’t hear myself think. It groans with the
weight of snow, the rush of wind. That wind—the moment you step outside the
tent, it grabs at you, hungry, snapping at any bit of exposed skin, gobbling up
any little warmth and spitting it back out into the miserable gray sky.

A few weeks ago we got caught in a blizzard. When a storm hits that way,
hard and fast, tearing down from the north, the guides call it Gruzeburya, the
Brute. We knew it would wipe out any sign of the herd, but there’s no way to
travel in something like that, so we made camp and hunkered down to wait. Then
Pilkin stepped outside to take a piss and didn’t come back. By then it was dark
and the storm was on us. All you could see were sheets and whorls of snow.
You’d take one step and suddenly it was like standing in the middle of nowhere,
like the camp had just disappeared.

We tied ropes to each other and waded out, looking for Pilkin, moving from
tent to tent. We shouted until our throats were raw. Nothing. Finally we gave it
up, pulled each other in, one after another, shaking from the cold, holding tight
to that thin, frozen tether. We figured Pilkin had gotten turned around, headed in
the wrong direction, away from camp. But the next morning we found him next
to the mess tent. He was there all along, probably just a few feet from us, just
steps from shelter. We must have walked right by him in the dark, our voices
drowned by the shriek of the wind.

That’s what this place is like. You can feel the cold waiting, patient, for you to
put one foot wrong. It starts to wear on you. Each morning Mikhael makes the
same stupid joke about which part of him froze off in the night. I can just see you
rolling your eyes at that, see you scowl and say, “You’re the only one who would
miss it, you miserable oaf.” This is going to sound ridiculous To hell with it—I
miss your scowl.

I need to sleep, but I know I won’t. I can’t stop seeing the look on your face
that day in the Grisha tent, the fear and confusion, the blood dripping down your
arm. He cut you, Alina. I saw the knife in his hand. How many times has he cut
you since? How many times has he hurt you? How many times have I failed to
stop him? I know if you were safe and whole you’d write.

I felt sure there would be a letter waiting for me when we finally reached
Chernast, felt it in my gut, but all I found were rumors, each one crazier than the
last. People are calling you a Saint or a fraud. They say you’ve been

assassinated, imprisoned, betrothed to a Lantsov prince. They say there are cells
beneath the Little Palace crowded with dissidents, that the Darkling has a secret
group of Corporalki trained in torture that he uses to keep the Second Army in
line.

We passed through a town before we entered Tsibeya. They’d built a little
altar there, painted in blue and gold, piled high with gifts for the Sun Summoner,
for you. I don’t know what to make of it all. I know what I saw on the Fold, in
the Grisha tent, light pouring from your skin, so bright it was hard to look at,
you shining like a star. You were one thing and then you were another. You were
Alina and then I didn’t know you at all.

Months gone, and still no word. I’ve made formal requests, informal requests.
I tried talking to one of the Grisha in Chernast, a high-ranking Heartrender
named Koh. I asked if she’d had any real news, if she could get word to you. She
laughed in my face. “I don’t know the Darkling’s business,” she said. “And I
don’t ask.” When I petitioned the captain to see if he would write to the capital
on my behalf, all he said was, “Keep your head down and do your job, Oretsev.”
No, that’s not quite true. Before he dismissed me, he asked, “What is she to you
anyway?” I didn’t know what to say.

I keep seeing that bloodletter dragging you through the crowd while I just
stood there like a fool. What would they have done if I’d run after you? Shot me?
Stopped my heart ? Let me say some kind of goodbye? I’ll never know. Because
when I finally got my head together, I didn’t start shouting or throwing punches.
I turned to my superior officer and, while they hauled you away, I tried to
explain. I made my case respectfully, reasonably, like the good soldier I am.

That can’t be the last time I’ll see you. When that thought creeps in, when it’s
late like this and the lamp burns low and the flame starts to sputter, I feel every
empty hollow in myself and the wind just blows through. I feel how flimsy I am,
how all the things I thought were strong and whole were just held together by
you.

What is she to you anyway? Here’s my answer, Captain. She’s the thing that
made this all okay—the threadbare coats and the old boots and the guns that
jam when you most need them to fire, the loneliness of knowing that you don’t
matter, that you will never matter, the fact that you’re just another body, another
uniform to be sent into the Fold or the frost, another good boy who knows his
place, who does his job, who doesn’t ask questions, who will lie down and die
and be forgotten. What is she? She’s everything, you dumb son of a bitch.

Alina. I want to take off walking, to brave the snow and the permafrost and
head south to you. Do you know why I don’t ? I’m not afraid of the dark or the
cold. I’m not even afraid of being called a deserter. I’m afraid of the moment

when I stand at the gates of the Grand Palace, pleading to be let in. I know that I
could beg and scream and wail all night until the guards dragged me away or
put a bullet in my brain just to shut me up, and those gates still wouldn’t open. I
could be that close and you’d never know. Like Pilkin, shouting in the dark.

I did something stupid this morning. (I can almost hear your voice in my ear
—“Why should this morning be any different ?”) A few days back we got into a
skirmish with a Fjerdan patrol. Out here, you can’t tell if you’re dealing with
friend or foe until you’re right on top of each other. They had repeating rifles,
and all we had were our old muskets. It was a miracle we came out of it with just
one casualty, and that was only because we had better numbers. I killed three
men—two with the rifle, one with the bow. The captain had us take their
uniforms. We stripped their corpses right there in the snow. Even if we’d wanted
to bury the bodies, the ground was too hard, so we left them for the wolves.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what the captain had planned. The herd is moving
north, past the Fjerdan border. He wants us to cross over, right into enemy
territory, and bring back the stag. This morning he offered double pay to anyone
who volunteered, but before he was even finished my hand was in the air. I don’t
remember what I said, just the captain clapping me on the back. Then Mikhael
was volunteering, and Dubrov. I don’t think they would have said a word if I
hadn’t opened my big mouth, double pay or not. You always warned me they
were idiots, but I’m glad I won’t be going alone.

It’s a stupid plan. Just how far into Fjerda does he expect us to go? And even
if we do locate the herd, our orders are to sight and capture the stag, not kill it.
How are we supposed to get back over the border without being stopped ? The
captain isn’t thinking straight. He’s desperate to get south, to get back to
Chernast and in front of a fire. I guess I’m desperate, too, because tomorrow I’ll
put on a dead man’s clothes and make the crossing. The Darkling wants that
stag. He wants it for you, so I’ll find it. It’s the one thing I can still give you. The
only thing.

Almost no oil left. The flame is guttering and I guess there’s not much left to
say. I’m not sure why I bothered to write this letter. We’re far from any post and
I may never have a chance to send it. I don’t know that I meant to. Maybe I’ll
step outside and let the wind take it. This wind is strong enough to reach you, to
travel south past Tsibeya, to scale the Petrazoi, and wend its way through the
streets of Os Alta. This wind won’t stop for gates or guards. It will climb your
tower and rattle the window of your room, or slip through a hidden doorway and
twist past the bars of your cell. It will lift your hair and brush against your
cheek, and maybe you’ll look up and you’ll hear me.

Maybe that’s why I wrote this letter, Alina. Maybe it’s a promise—that I’ll

survive tomorrow and the day after that, and somehow, no matter what it takes,
I’ll see you safe again.

M.



Have you been checking the casualty lists?”

It’s the right question to ask, though I’m almost ashamed at how easily it
comes to my lips.

Alina gives a single sharp nod as her hands clench the edge of the infirmary
sheet. I’m sorry to see her hurting, but I can’t help being fascinated by the play
of emotion over her face. She hasn’t learned to hide what she feels. It’s all there
for anyone to read from moment to moment: happiness, relief, fear, and—always
—fatigue, the deep weariness she carries everywhere. That lack of caution is a
novelty at court. I have to remind myself not to stare.

I bring her pen and paper so she can write out the tracker’s name: Malyen
Oretsev. I know it well enough by now. He’s the only person she’s written to
this whole time at the Little Palace. Instead of posting her letters, the servants
bring them to me, and I pass them along. I don’t know if the Darkling reads them
or if they sit unopened, a growing stack in some bureau drawer.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” I tell Alina as I slip the paper into my sleeve. Again, her
face comes alive: Red in her cheeks—she’s ashamed to have asked. Lips pressed
together—she hopes anyway. It’s almost painful to watch. I think she’s so used
to being unnoticed that she doesn’t realize how much she shows. I have to bite
back the urge to tell her to be more careful. It’s not my place to give her
warnings, but I seem to keep finding myself doing so.

Before I go, I bully her into letting me fix the dark circles beneath her eyes.
She grumbles and groans, and I burst out laughing when she finally relents,
hurling herself back against the pillows as if I’ve insisted on reading her a
sermon. Ridiculous girl.

My hands drift over her skin. Maybe it’s my way of apologizing. And
honestly, I can’t help myself. It’s like wiping the smudges off a looking glass, or

putting flowers in a vase just so—sometimes my fingers fairly itch to set her to
rights. Besides, in this moment, I’m her friend. I can pretend all the little
betrayals don’t exist. I can ignore the paper with Oretsev’s name on it burning a
hole in my sleeve.

In the end, I leave Alina arguing with the Healer about checking out of the
infirmary and turn my steps to the war room. I take the long way so I can pass by
the big sunlit windows of the Fabrikator workshops. I won’t stop in, not today,
but I can still treat myself to a glimpse of David’s bent shoulders and messy
brown hair. I’m deep in a day-dream of him letting me cut it when I come
around the corner and nearly slam into Zoya.

“Where are you rushing off to?” she says with a sniff. “Does the Queen have a
party to attend?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I say coolly. “But I have a few moments if you
want me to see to your eyes. They’re looking awfully red.”

She keeps that haughty look, but her shoulders stiffen and she has to work a
bit harder to lift her perfect nose in the air. I know I shouldn’t enjoy her misery
as much as I do. I also shouldn’t have a second buttered roll with my breakfast
every morning, but sometimes one must indulge. Anyway, Zoya bought this
trouble for herself.

“Hay fever,” she mutters. “There’s something new in the air here that irritates
me.”

“Yes,” I say as I glide past her. “I hear you practically choked on it.”
I learned a long time ago never to give Zoya a chance at the last word. That
girl finds openings like water in a sieve.

i'D PLANNED tO leave a message for the Darkling with his guards, but I meet
Ivan coming out of the war room.

“Back from visiting the invalid?” he asks as I follow him out of the Little
Palace.

“She’s hardly that.”
“Well, she looks the part.”
“Should she be leading a fencing lesson by the lake? Zoya broke two of her
ribs.”
“Shame,” he drawls.
I arch a brow. “The Darkling thought so. Please tell me you were there when
he told Zoya she’d be leaving Os Alta.”
“I was.”
“And?” I urge as we head down the hill to the birch grove. I’m a greedy thing,
but how can I be expected to resist this gossip?

Ivan shrugs, scowling. “He just made it clear that she’s replaceable and
Starkov isn’t.”

I grin. “Does that worry you, Ivan?”
“No,” he snaps.
“Careful,” I say. “Keep frowning like that, and even I won’t be able to fix
your wrinkles.”
Impossibly, his features twist into a deeper snarl, and I have to restrain a snort.
Ivan struts around like a robin, all puffed-up pride and red plumage. It’s just so
easy to ruffle his feathers. I know he begrudges me any word or confidence
shared with the Darkling. Still, I like him. He treats me with disdain, but it’s
exactly the same disdain he shows everyone else.
As we enter the birch grove, I glimpse a few oprichniki standing guard, nearly
hidden in the gloom between the trees. I’ve never grown used to them. They’re a
brotherhood of their own, and they keep to a separate code. They never mix with
the Grisha or the court.
When we finally arrive at the banya, the Darkling is just emerging from the
baths, pulling a clean shirt over his head. He really is something to look at, all
lean muscle and pale skin beaded with moisture from the steam.
He runs a hand through his damp hair and gestures me forward. “How is she?”
“Better,” I reply. “She’s asked to be moved from the infirmary.”
“I’ll approve it,” he says with a nod to Ivan. Without a word, the Heartrender
disappears back into the trees to see it done.
The Darkling takes his kefta from a waiting oprichnik and shrugs it on. I fall
into step beside him on one of the narrow paths that wends through the grove.
“What else?” he asks.
“The Apparat visited her last night to rant about Saints and saviors. From what
I could piece together, he was either trying to scare her senseless or bore her to
death.”
“I may need to have a word with the priest.”
“I told her he’s harmless.”
“Hardly that,” says the Darkling, “but he has the King’s ear. For now that’s all
that matters.”
An uneasy silence descends as we emerge from the trees onto the dirt path that
leads to the training rooms and the stables. The Darkling knows there’s more to
tell and that I’m not quite ready to say it.
It’s deserted here at this time of day, no sound but the nicker of horses in their
paddocks. The winter air carries their warm animal smell and, beneath it, the
sweet scent of hay. I wrinkle my nose. Just steps from the Little Palace, and this
place feels positively rural.

Six black horses are in the western paddock—the matched team that pulls the
Darkling’s coach. When we reach the fence, the Darkling gives a low whistle
and one of the horses ambles over to us, twitching its silky mane.

I slip the piece of paper from my sleeve and hand it to the Darkling.
“The tracker again,” he says, unsurprised.
“She’s afraid he was killed in action and hasn’t shown up on the lists yet.” I
hesitate, then say, “But I think she’s almost as scared that he’s alive and well and
through with her.”
He studies the paper for a moment, then gives it back to me. He strokes a hand
over the horse’s long, velvety nose.
“What should I tell her?” I ask.
He glances at me. “The truth. Tell her where the boy is stationed.”
“She’ll think—”
“I know what she’ll think, Genya.”
I lean against the fence, my back to the paddock, fingers worrying the scrap of
paper as the Darkling murmurs softly to the horse, low words I can’t make out.
I can’t meet his eyes, but somehow I summon the courage to say, “Do you
care about her at all?”
There’s the briefest pause.
“What are you really asking, Genya?”
I shrug. “I like her. When this is all over—”
“You want to know if she’ll forgive you.”
I run my thumb over Alina’s choppy writing, all graceless slashes and blunt
lines. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in a long time.
“Maybe,” I say.
“She won’t.”
I suspect he’s right. I certainly wouldn’t. I just didn’t think it would matter to
me as much as it does.
“You decide,” he says. “I’ll have the letters brought to you.”
“You kept them?”
“Post them. Give them back to her. Do whatever you think best.”
I watch him closely. This feels like some kind of trick. “You can’t mean that.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, his gray eyes cool. “Old bonds,” he says as
he gives the horse a final pat and pushes off from the fence. “They can do
nothing for Alina but tie her to a life long gone.”
The paper is starting to fray beneath my fingers. “She’s suffering.”
He stops my fidgeting with the barest touch of his hand. His power flows
through me, calming, the steady rush of a river. Best not to think where the
current may take me.

“You’ve suffered, too,” he says.
He leaves me standing by the paddock, the tracker’s name folding and
unfolding in my hands.

tHE QVEEN DOES have a party to attend tonight. After I’ve changed my mud-
spattered slippers and rid myself of the scent of the stables, I find her seated at
her dressing table, a maid tending to her hair. There was a time when she
wouldn’t let anyone but me see to her preparations. “Genya does it better than
any of you,” she would say, waving the servants away. “Go and bring us tea and
something sweet.”

I’m pleased to see that the maid is doing a terrible job of it. The style is nice
enough, but it isn’t suited to the Queen’s face. I would place the pins higher,
leave a strand free to curl around her cheek.

“You’re late,” she snaps as she catches sight of me in the mirror.
I curtsy. “Apologies, moya tsaritsa.”
It takes me over an hour to finish working on her face and neck, and by then
the maid has long since vanished to see to other duties. The skin pulls strangely
at the Queen’s cheekbones, and the blue of her eyes is an indigo too vibrant to be
believed. But she wanted the shade to match her gown, and I no longer argue.
Still, it drives me nearly mad. It’s that itch again. I can’t walk by a crooked
picture frame and not set it right. The Queen always pushes too far—a bit more,
a bit more, until the angle is all wrong.
She hums to herself, sucking on a waxy bit of lokum flavored with rosewater,
and coos to the dog curled in her lap. When I bend to adjust the bows on her
slippers, she absently rests a hand on my shoulder—almost a caress, or maybe a
scratch behind the ears. Sometimes it’s as if she forgets to hate me. It’s as if I
were still the girl she treasured, the doll she loved to dress up and show off to her
friends. I’d like to say I resisted such treatment, but I loved every minute of it.
I’d been ordinary among the Grisha, a pretty girl with a modicum of talent. At
the Grand Palace, I was cherished. In the mornings, I would arrive with the
Queen’s tea and she’d throw open her arms. “Pretty thing!” she’d exclaim, and
I’d run to her. “Where shall we walk today? Shall we go to the gardens or take a
trip into town? Shall we find a new gown for you?”
I didn’t realize then what I was giving up, the way the distance would grow
between me and the Grisha, how I would lose their language when I didn’t take
the same classes or know the right gossip or sleep under the same roof. But I
didn’t have time to contemplate such things. The Queen fed me on candied
plums and cherries soaked in ginger syrup. We painted silk fans and discussed
fashionable novels with her friends. She let me pick out which wriggling puppy

would be hers, and we spent hours choosing his name. She taught me to walk, to
curtsy. It was easy to adore her.

Even now, it’s hard not to fall back into the habit of loving her. She is so
poised, so regal, a creature of sublime grace. I help her into her wrap, lush violet
silk that makes her eyes glow even brighter. Then I tend to the veins on her
hands.

“Do my knuckles look swollen?” she asks. Her fingers are heavy with jewels
—sapphire bands and the Lantsov emerald wedged between them. “My rings
feel tight.”

“They look fine—” I begin.
She frowns.
“I’ll fix them.”
I’m not sure when things began to change, when I started to feel less easy in
her company. I felt her slipping away from me, but I didn’t know what I’d done
wrong or how to stop it. I only knew I had to work harder to coax smiles from
her, that my presence seemed to bring her less pleasure.
I do remember the day I was working on her face, easing the faint furrows that
had started to appear across her forehead.
When I was finished, she peered into the mirror. “I still see a line.”
“It won’t look right,” I said, “if I keep going.”
She rapped me once, hard, across my knuckles with the golden handle of her
hairbrush. “You’re not fooling anyone,” she spat. “I won’t let you make me look
a hag.”
I’d drawn back, cradling my hand, baffled. But I pushed down my confused
tears and did as she asked, still hoping that whatever I’d broken might be
repaired.
There were good days after that, but there were more when she would ignore
me completely, or tug my curls so hard my eyes watered. She would pinch my
chin between her fingers and mutter, “Pretty thing.” It stopped sounding like
praise.
Tonight, though, her mood is good. I snip a thread from her cuff, smooth the
train of her gown. With her blond hair shining in the lamplight, she looks like a
gilded painting of a Saint.
“You should wear the lily in your hair,” I suggest, thinking of the blue glass
comb I’d once helped to make for her in the Fabrikator workshops.
She glances at me, and for the briefest moment I think I see warmth in her
gaze. But it must be a trick of the light because in the next second, she laughs in
her brittle way and says, “That old thing? It’s long out of fashion.”
I know she hopes to wound me, but the girl who flinched at her barbs is a

memory.
“You’re right, of course,” I say, and curtsy deeply.
The Queen waves one smooth white hand. “Surely you’re wanted elsewhere?”

She says it like it’s the last thing she believes.

WHEN i FiNALLY get back to my chamber, the lamps have been lit and a fire
burns merrily in the grate. One of the serving girls has set a fragrant bundle of
kitchen sage on the mantel. They understand what it is to live beneath this
King’s rule. Or maybe it would be the same under any Lantsov. I’ve met the
heir, Vasily. He has his father’s soft chin, his wet lower lip. I shudder.

If I could wish for anything in this world, it wouldn’t be jewels or a coach or a
palace in the lake district. I’d wish to be a true Grisha again, of course—but
short of that, I’d settle for a lock on my chamber door.

I ring for a dinner tray, wriggle out of my ivory silk kefta and into a dressing
gown. Only then do I see the ebony box resting on the plush cushions of the
window seat. It is a simple object, completely out of place amid the frothing
white and gold ornament of this room. Its elegance lies in the perfection of its
angles, in its seamless sides, smooth as glass and polished to a high shine. It
doesn’t bear his symbol. It doesn’t have to. And I don’t need to open its
gleaming lid to know what’s inside.

I wash my face, take down my hair, toe off my satin slippers so that I can feel
the grooves of the cool wood floor beneath my feet. All the while, the box lurks
just out of my vision like a glossy black beetle.

The dinner tray arrives—a truffled cheese tart, wine-braised quail with crispy
skin, and fish poached in butter. The food is rich, as always, but it never bothers
me. No matter my worries, I can always eat.

When I’ve finished, I light the lamps in my closet. My kefta hang along one
wall—wool for winter, silk for summer, thick folds of satin and velvet for when
I am still asked to parties. There are two shelves stacked with rarely worn
breeches and blouses, and a row of simple shifts made for me because the Queen
does not approve of women wearing trousers.

The rest of the closet has been converted into my own little workshop, stocked
with all the things I need for my kit: bottles of dye, sheets of gold leaf and coils
of copper, tins of crushed carmine, and jars of pickled berries. They smell
dreadful when opened, but the colors stay pure. There are other bottles too, full
of more dangerous things that I’ve buried near the back of the shelf. There’s one
in particular that I like to take out when the day has been long. I made it myself
and I love the liquid’s warm golden color, its sweet cinnamon smell. Dekora
Nevich, I call it. The Ornamental Blade.

Despite the trappings of my kit, there’s plenty of room in my closet. Once I
fell out of favor, the new gowns stopped coming. I outgrew the layers of ruffles
and puffed sleeves and had to slouch to hide how tight my bodice had grown, the
way the hems rode up my ankles. The effect was almost obscene.

And then one morning I found my child’s dresses gone and a kefta, a Grisha’s
most treasured possession outside of an amplifier, hanging on my door. It was
white. White and gold. It was a livery.

I told myself it meant nothing. It was just a color. I made myself put it on. I
fixed my hair, held my head high. I was beautiful in this, as I was beautiful in
everything. Besides, I had nothing else to wear.

But I was wrong. That color meant everything. It was a command to the
Queen’s ladies that they shouldn’t greet me or acknowledge that I’d entered a
room. It was an indelible line drawn between me and the other Grisha. It was a
signal to the King that he could follow me into my chambers and press me up
against the wall, that I was available for his use. That there was no point to
crying out.

There were no good days anymore, no sweets or outings, just long hours of
tedium, waiting for the Queen’s call, dreading the King’s soft tread outside my
door. One night, before a party, I was summoned to the Queen’s dressing room. I
darkened her lashes with black walnut, tinted her lips with peonies grown for me
in the Grisha hothouses. I worked quietly, saying nothing, keeping my eyes
downcast. I was to be in her retinue that night, and I’d been careful to style my
own hair simply. I suppose I could have made myself plain to please her, but
some part of me would not allow it.

Her gown was pale green that night, darker at the hem, fresh as new leaves.
As I fastened the pearl buttons at her back, she said, “A lack of gratitude is
unbecoming in a servant. You should wear the jewels my husband gives you.”

I saw it then. I understood. She’d known it would happen. Maybe from the
first day she’d brought me to the Little Palace. She knew him and what he was,
but I was the one she resented for it. I stood there, paralyzed, buffeted by two
competing winds. I wanted to fall to my knees and bury my head in her lap, to
cry and beg for her protection. I wanted to smash the mirror she feared so much
and cut her face to ribbons with it, stuff her mouth with glass and make her
swallow every jagged edge of my hurt and shame.

Instead, I went to the Darkling. I don’t know where I found the audacity. Even
as I ran across the palace grounds, a voice in my head was cursing me for a fool,
clamoring that I would never be granted audience, that I should turn back and
forget this madness. But I couldn’t bear the idea of returning to the Queen’s side,
of spending the whole night with my nails digging into my palms, smelling her

perfume, counting and recounting the line of buttons on that leaf green dress as
she held court. The thought drove my steps all the way to the Little Palace.

I wanted to avoid the Grisha in the main hall, so I used the entrance that led
directly to the war room. As soon as I made my request to the oprichnik standing
guard, I regretted it. The Darkling had given me to the Queen. He would turn me
away now, maybe worse.

But the oprichnik returned and simply gestured for me to follow him down the
hall. When I arrived at the war room, a group of Grisha were leaving—Ivan and
several high-ranking Etherealki and Heartrenders I didn’t know.

I’d told myself I would be dignified. I would plead my case rationally. But
when Ivan closed the door, I started to cry. The Darkling might have chastised
me or turned his back. But he put his arm around me, sat me down at the table.
He poured me a glass of water and waited until I was calm enough to take a
gulping sip.

“Do not let them humble you,” he said softly.
I’d had a speech prepared, a hundred things I wanted to say. All of it went out
of my head, and I sputtered the first thing that came into my mind. “I don’t want
to wear this anymore,” I pleaded. “It’s a servant’s uniform.”
“It’s a soldier’s uniform.”
I shook my head, choking back another sob. He leaned forward and wiped the
tears from my cheeks with the sleeve of his own kefta.
“If you tell me you cannot bear this, then I will send you from here and you
need never wear those colors or walk the halls of the Grand Palace again. You
will be safe, I promise you that.”
I looked up at him, not quite believing. “Safe?”
“Safe. But I can promise you this, too: You are a soldier. You could be my
greatest soldier. And if you stay, if you can endure this, one day all will know
it.” He lifted my chin with his finger. “Do you know the King once cut himself
on his own sword?”
A little laugh escaped me. “He did?”
The Darkling nodded, the barest grin playing over his lips. “He wears it
constantly—just for show, mind you. He forgets it is not a toy by his side but a
weapon.” His face grew serious. “I can promise you safety,” he said. “Or I can
promise to see your suffering repaid a thousandfold.” With the pad of his thumb,
he brushed a stray tear from beneath my eye. “You decide, Genya.”

tHAT CHOiCE WAS HARD, but this one is easy.
I straighten the rows of bottles and shut the closet door. I cross to the window.

When I press my face to the glass, I can see the lanterns lit across the palace

grounds, and I can just make out the sounds of music playing in one of the
ballrooms, the high human wail of violins. If I could see past the trees, through
the dark, I might glimpse the wooded tunnel and, beyond it, down that gentle
slope, the golden domes that top the Little Palace.

I think of Alina’s too-thin fingers gripping the edge of the sheet, the hope she
can’t hide in her pale, expressive face as she wrote out the tracker’s name.

I open the black wood box, and I feed the letters to the fire, one by one. It
hurts, but I can bear it. Because I am a doll, and a servant. Because I am a pretty
thing and a soldier all the same.

W HAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?
Mostly I wanted to write, but after I saw their production of Twelfth Night, I
wanted to join the Royal Shakespeare Company.

W HEN DID YOU REALIZE YOU WANTED TO BE A WRITER?
I’m not sure there ever was a realization. I am an only child, so I spent a lot of
time talking to myself and making up stories. Then, when I hit junior high,
writing became a kind of survival mechanism. Things were rough at school and
rough at home, but writing gave me a way to invent worlds that were bigger and
better than the one I lived in.

W HAT’S YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING CHILDHOOD MEMORY?
I’m sure the really terrible ones are buried so deep they’ll require years of
therapy to recover. But I can tell you that I once sang a song I wrote at a talent
show. It was called “Love International.” That’s all you really need to know.

W HAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CHILDHOOD MEMORY?
Most of my happiest memories involve my grandfather. My mom was in school,
so he pretty much raised me. He could be a moody bastard, but he was always
doing these surprising, wonderful things. I came home from school once and
he’d made me stilts out of leftover plywood. We spent the afternoon painting
them white and blue, and the next day he taught me to walk on them.

A S A YOUNG PERSON, WHO DID YOU LOOK UP TO MOST?
1) My grandfather. 2) Mr. T.

W HAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE THING ABOUT SCHOOL?
I liked art history, history, anything with stories. But I’ll be honest—I loved
school until I was about twelve. After that, every day was a struggle.

W HAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE THING ABOUT SCHOOL?
Sunday nights. They were the worst because I had all of this homework to catch
up on and I was just dreading the start of another week.

W ? W ?HAT WERE YOUR HOBBIES AS A KID
HAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES NOW

I loved to draw and read. I was a big theater geek. I sang in a choir and a band,

and I got into martial arts for a while. My hobbies are pretty much the same now,

minus the tae kwon do.

W HAT WAS YOUR FIRST JOB, AND WHAT WAS YOUR “WORST” JOB?
My first job was as a sales clerk at a now-defunct stationery store in the mall.
Minimum wage, but I got discounts on the most gorgeous paper and journals.
Worst job? Tough to choose. I was a beer girl one summer in New York. I had to
carry around a big case full of beer and marketing material to delis and bars, and
try to get them to carry the brand. It was about a hundred degrees every day, the
beer was terrible so no one wanted it, and I was completely broke.

W HAT BOOK IS ON YOUR NIGHTSTAND NOW?
The Fox Sister by Christina Strain and Jayd Aït-Kaci.

H OW DID YOU CELEBRATE PUBLISHING YOUR FIRST BOOK?
The night we found out that Holt would publish my book, some of my closest
friends (including my beta readers) invited me over and we made champagne
cocktails and danced like crazy people to Rihanna and Florence + the Machine.
And I bought myself some really fancy perfume.

W HERE DO YOU WRITE YOUR BOOKS?
When I’m drafting, there are a couple of cafés I like to work in. The noise keeps
my spirits up. My friends and I will meet and do what we like to call “friendly
surveillance.” We keep one another offline and even hide each other’s cell
phones. Once it’s time to turn the draft into a book, I go into the bunker. I don’t
leave the house for months. I tend to write in bed or in my grandfather’s old
leather chair.

W S B HAT SPARKED YOUR IMAGINATION FOR HADOW AND ONE ?
The idea for the Small Science came to me years ago, after a heated debate over
the movie Minority Report. But the story of Shadow and Bone really began one
night at a friend’s house, when I stood at the end of a darkened hallway, sure that
something with too many teeth was waiting for me in the dark. When I got back
to bed, I lay awake wondering, what if darkness was a place? What if the
monsters we imagined there were real, and we had to fight them on their own
territory? In fantasy, darkness usually operates as a metaphor. I wanted to make
it a literal, physical thing. That idea became the Shadow Fold.

W D HAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE PART OF RESEARCH FOR THE NOVEL?
ID YOU FIND ANYTHING FASCINATING THAT YOU DIDN’T END UP

USING?

I think the nature of research is that a lot of things don’t make it into the book. I

enjoy anything that takes me into daily life—the foods served at a particular

party, games children played, small superstitions like the gesture of leaving

vodka behind the stove for ghosts.

W HAT WAS THE WORLD-BUILDING PROCESS LIKE FOR YOU?
When I wrote the first draft, I had the magical system in place and understood
the basic way that power—political and magical—operated in the world. When
it came to creating a sense of place, I knew I wanted to step away from the
classic medieval European fantasy setting, but I still wanted a cultural
touchstone to keep the world consistent and tangible. I also knew that I wanted
the advent of modern warfare to play a role in the book. I was browsing through
the travel section of a used bookstore when I came across an Imperial Russian
atlas, and I just thought, “Of course.” It was a natural fit for the world I was
creating—the vast discrepancy in wealth between the classes, the failure to
industrialize, the largely conscripted army. But for me, Russia was always a
point of departure rather than a final destination. I think that difference can be
felt in big choices like the geography and history of the world, and smaller
choices like not strictly gendering surnames, the construction of plurals, or using
kvas as a stand-in for strong spirits.

W HICH OF YOUR CHARACTERS IS MOST LIKE YOU?
I have something in common with all of my characters. But if any of them were
too much like me, I’d probably just end up sending them on vacation and giving
them ponies.

W S B HAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SCENE IN HADOW AND ONE ?
The moment in the snowy glade, right before Mal and Alina find the stag.

I G F YOU COULD BE ONE OF THE RISHA, WHICH TYPE WOULD YOU BE?
Probably a Heartrender. I’m bloodthirsty like that. And I look great in red.

I GS THERE ANY SIGNIFICANCE BEHIND THE WORD “ RISHA”?
“Grisha” is the Russian diminutive of Gregory. It means “watchful” and derives
from the biblical Grigori. (A lot of paranormal fans will recognize the reference
from fallen angel tales.) It also visually and aurally evokes the word “geisha,”
and I hoped that would reinforce the sense of beauty and secrecy that surrounds
Ravka’s magical elite.

N S B OW THAT HADOW AND ONE IS SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE, WE ARE DYING TO KNOW—WHO DO YOU THINK SHOULD PLAY
DTHE ARKLING?
I’ve loved seeing some of the fans’ casting choices, but anyone I picked would
probably be too old for the role. It’s tough because whomever they choose has to
look young while still having the presence to make you believe that he can lead
armies and conquer worlds.

W S S ? N HAT CAN READERS EXPECT IN THE SEQUEL, IEGE AND TORM
O SPOILERS, PLEASE!

Well, I don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to tell you the Darkling will be back.

What can I say? You can’t keep a bad man down. But he’s changed, and so has

Alina. She’s had her first taste of the way power will affect her, and she’ll have

to wrestle with the repercussions of the decisions she made at the end of Shadow

and Bone. I’ll also be introducing my favorite character of the series, and taking

readers beyond Ravka’s borders.

W HAT MAKES YOU LAUGH OUT LOUD?
Parks and Recreation. Kids in the Hall (cue up “Time to Hate the Swiss”).
Those “Bad Lip Reading” clips. Anna Banks.

W HAT DO YOU DO ON A RAINY DAY?
Write. I also like to put on my Northface and go for a walk. Rainy days are a
luxury in LA.

W HAT’S YOUR IDEA OF FUN?
Being with my friends around a table. Hanging out with the guys from my band.

W HAT’S YOUR FAVORITE SONG?
Depends on the day. I’m very fickle. But I can’t resist singing along to the live
version of “Gold Dust Woman.” I would gladly swear fealty to Stevie Nicks.

W HO IS YOUR FAVORITE FICTIONAL CHARACTER?
Batman. Arya Stark is a close second.

W D HAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE BOOK WHEN YOU WERE A KID? O YOU HAVE A FAVORITE BOOK NOW?
I loved A Swiftly Tilting Planet and a book called Catwitch that is no longer in
print. (I still have my copy.) Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones is a
beloved comfort read. I loved Stephen King, particularly It and Eyes of the
Dragon.
These days I have a lot of favorites, but the ones that always come to mind are
Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold and George R. R. Martin’s A Song
of Ice and Fire series.

W TV HAT’S YOUR FAVORITE
SHOW OR MOVIE?

In no particular order: Strictly Ballroom, The Untouchables, Romancing the

Stone, Battlestar Galactica (the new one), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, A Room

with a View.

I F YOU WERE STRANDED ON A DESERT ISLAND, WHO WOULD YOU WANT FOR COMPANY?
Joss Whedon. Or someone made of cake.

I F YOU COULD TRAVEL ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, WHERE WOULD YOU GO AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO?
I’ve been to Venice, but I’d like to go back for Biennale and Carnival. Actually,
I’d love to live in Venice.

I F YOU COULD TRAVEL IN TIME, WHERE WOULD YOU GO AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO?
The future! I’m not sure how far into the future. I’d probably overshoot it and
end up in some cosmic void. But it kills me that I’m not going to get to see how
things go. I was promised unitards, hover cars, and food in the form of pellets.

W HAT’S THE BEST ADVICE YOU HAVE EVER RECEIVED ABOUT WRITING?
Read poetry. A professor once told me, “I don’t read poetry so I can talk about it
at cocktail parties. I read it because it’s the last place heightened language
exists.”

W HAT ADVICE DO YOU WISH SOMEONE HAD GIVEN YOU WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER?
There are no fairy godmothers.

D W O YOU EVER GET WRITER’S BLOCK?
HAT DO YOU DO TO GET BACK ON TRACK?

I do. I try to work on another part of the story, or change from first to third

person, or go for a walk. And I’m a big fan of talking to myself. If I can

articulate the problem in the scene, then my brain can start pulling it apart. Also,
I’ve read a few really funny but really vicious quotes about writer’s block from
some prominent authors I love. They kind of stung. I tend to think that anyone
who never fears the page or never goes through slumps is either incredibly lucky
or incredibly full of crap. Don’t be ashamed of struggling. The trick is to keep a
bad writing day from turning into a bad writing week—or worse.

W HAT DO YOU WANT READERS TO REMEMBER ABOUT YOUR BOOKS?
When it comes to my favorite books, I want to live in the world the author
created long after I’ve turned the final page. I’d be delighted if a reader felt that
way about my work. In terms of some kind of message, I think it’s worth asking
how much of ourselves we’re willing to sacrifice for the sake of belonging to
someone or something. For me, that’s the question at the heart of Shadow and
Bone.

W HAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU EVER STOPPED WRITING?
Become awful. Seriously, I’m a monster when I don’t write. But if you mean as
a career, I guess I’d go back to copywriting. I don’t know. I’ve worked a lot of
crappy jobs. I really like this one. I want to keep it.

W HAT SHOULD PEOPLE KNOW ABOUT YOU?
I feel like people know too much about me already. I’ve always wanted to be
mysterious, but I’m too fond of talking about myself.

I H S BEING A MAKEUP ARTIST IN OLLYWOOD AS GLAMOROUS AS IT SOUNDS?
Honestly? Most days it’s long hours on your feet, little pay, and not much
respect. But then there are the wonderful times when you get to collaborate with
cool people and make something strange and surprising. That keeps you going.
Also, free stuff.

W HAT IS YOUR ONE MAKEUP MUST-HAVE?
Sleep. Seriously. FACE atelier foundation is pretty spectacular, too.

W HAT DO YOU LIKE BEST ABOUT YOURSELF?
I’m easily amused.

D O YOU HAVE ANY STRANGE OR FUNNY HABITS?
I’m very superstitious and always have been, but I’m also particular about my
superstitions. I love black cats, I’m fine with the number 13, I’ll walk under a
ladder. But I throw salt over my shoulder, I never toast with water, and I hate the

number 4.

W HAT DO YOU CONSIDER YOUR GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT?
I’m hoping it’s still before me and that it involves an aqueduct.

W HAT DO YOU WISH YOU COULD DO BETTER?
I wish I could just walk into a room full of strangers and feel at ease.

W HAT WOULD YOUR READERS BE MOST SURPRISED TO LEARN ABOUT YOU?
There used to be a game show called Win Ben Stein’s Money. I was on it. I did
not win his money.





LEIGH BARDUGO is a #1 New York Times–bestselling author of fantasy
novels and the creator of the Grishaverse. With over one million copies sold, her
Grishaverse spans the Shadow and Bone Trilogy, the Six of Crows Duology, and
The Language of Thorns—with more to come. Her short stories can be found in
multiple anthologies, including Some of the Best from Tor.com and The Best
American Science Fiction & Fantasy 2017. Her other works include Wonder
Woman: Warbringer and the forthcoming Ninth House. Leigh was born in
Jerusalem, grew up in Los Angeles, graduated from Yale University, and has
worked in advertising, journalism, and even makeup and special effects. These
days, she lives and writes in Hollywood, where she can occasionally be heard
singing with her band.

LEIGHBARDUGO.COM

GRISHAVERSE.COM

Copyright

ORION CHILDREN’S BOOKS

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Indigo as The Gathering Dark
This paperback edition first published in 2013 by Indigo

This edition published in Great Britain in 2018 by Hodder and Stoughton
This eBook edition published in 2018

Text copyright © Leigh Bardugo, 2012
Map copyright © 2012 by Keith Thompson

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and
any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by
any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form

of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eBook conversion by PDQ Digital Media Solutions Ltd.

ISBN 978-1-5101-0524-9

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Table of Contents

Title Page
Dedication
Praise for Shadow and Bone
Also By
Contents
Map
Before
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
After
Acknowledgments
Bonus Material
About the Author
Copyright